Notes from a Liar and Her Dog Page 5

  The people behind the Do Not Enter sign are all wearing khaki pants and khaki shirts and big black rubber boots. Just Carol seems to know everyone. She nods and says hello to almost all the khaki people and takes us inside a round stucco building, which has lockers on one side and big silver feed bins on the other. On top of the lockers are cases of corn and mixed vegetables, boxes of tennis balls and pillow sacks, infant swings, and stacks of empty milk cartons.

  It smells funny—warm and animal, like a pet store—and there are strange whooping, screeching noises that everyone is ignoring. I ask Just Carol who is making those noises. She says it’s the gibbons calling other gibbons, they do that all the time. Then she hands me and Harrison each a pair of big black boots. They are way too big for us, even with the extra socks she told us to bring. We wear them anyway.

  Pistachio is wiggling in my pocket, as if he wants to get out. I don’t think he likes the gibbons’ whoops that build to an alarming pitch, like some kind of animal siren. Or maybe it’s the strange smells that have him interested. I stick my hand in my jacket pocket and search for his belly, which I rub, hoping he won’t groan.

  “So this is them?” a khaki lady with very short black hair asks Just Carol.

  “Ant, Harrison, this is Mary-Judy,” Just Carol says. Mary-Judy is short for an adult—a lot shorter than I am. She has big solid legs like a rhino’s, perfect white teeth, and a pink strawberry mark on her cheek. I wonder at the name Mary-Judy. It doesn’t sound like two names that usually go together.

  “You know,” Mary-Judy says, eyeing Harrison and me suspiciously, “I don’t normally take kid volunteers on my string.”

  “What about Zoo Teens?” I ask Just Carol.

  “That’s a Children’s Zoo program,” Mary-Judy says. “It’s only because Carol here has volunteered for me for so long. She persuaded me that you two were really nice kids, extra conscientious, and good at following rules. That’s the only reason I agreed to take you on.”

  Harrison and I look at Just Carol. No one has ever described us as extra conscientious and good at following rules. Just Carol is nodding her head, though her smile looks a little wobbly.

  “Oh yes,” I say. “We never do anything we aren’t supposed to do.”

  “Never,” Harrison agrees.

  “Never,” Mary-Judy repeats, staring at a hole in Harrison’s pants where the end of his pocket is sticking through. “Look, let’s get this straight, you listen to what I say and you do exactly what I tell you. I don’t give second chances. Not when your safety, my safety, and the safety of my animals are involved.” Mary-Judy gives me a mean look. I take my hand out of Pistachio’s pocket. I feel guilty about having him here, then I realize Mary-Judy is looking after her animals, just like I’m looking after mine. Mary-Judy would do the same thing if she were me.

  “In fact,” Mary-Judy says, “I don’t give first chances. If you give me the slightest reason to boot you off my string, I will in a hot second, without thinking twice about it. Understand?”

  I nod my head. Harrison is nodding his head over and over again, as if someone has turned on his nod button.

  “They’ll be fine, Mary-Judy,” Just Carol says as her hand disappears in a big Tupperware tub filled with cardboard egg cartons and reappears with a handful of live worms. I shudder. I’m not squeamish, but I never expected there to be a big bin of worms sitting right on the desk like that.

  Just Carol tosses the worms in a small silver bowl half filled with cut-up oranges and apples and bananas. One of the worms tries to crawl out, but Just Carol pushes him back. She is casual about this, as if she has done it one hundred times before.

  “They better be,” Mary-Judy says as she opens the handle of a large walk-in refrigerator and comes out with a bucket filled with dead rats. “All right, let’s get a move on,” she says. I try not to look at the dead rats. But I can’t help it. I check to see if their eyes are open. No. Thank goodness for that.

  Mary-Judy and Just Carol are walking together now and Harrison and I are behind. I put my hand in my pocket to pet Pistachio. He is still anxious, though it’s better now that we are outside, walking behind the Do Not Enter sign and up into the main zoo.

  Harrison is searching in his pockets as we walk. First the easy ones in front. Then the hard-to-reach cargo ones down his leg. This slows us down and we lag behind Just Carol and Mary-Judy. They stop and wait for us. Harrison is half hopping, half walking, trying to hurry and hunt at the same time. Mary-Judy gives Harrison a strange look.

  “Why is it you guys call Carol Just Carol?” she asks when we are caught up.

  “Because she’s Just Carol, not Miss or Ms. or Mrs. Anything,” I explain as Mary-Judy unlocks a big brass padlock and unwinds a thick metal chain from around a chain-link fence.

  “Cute,” Mary-Judy snorts, though I can’t tell if she means this is cute or not cute. She turns over a plastic-covered sign attached to the gate with a paper clip. Now it says: Warning, Keeper in Area: Authorized Persons Only. Wow! This is pretty great. I’ve never been an authorized person before.

  “Step in the bleach,” Mary-Judy commands, pointing to a plastic basin half filled with liquid. “I lost a lion to leptospirosis, I’m not taking any chances.” She glares at us as if she is sure we are germ carriers. And just as I slap my boots into the basin, Harrison presses something into my hand. It’s a Milk-Bone. I can tell by the shape. Only Harrison would have this in his pocket. He doesn’t even have a dog. It worries me, though, because if he’s figured out Pistachio’s in my pocket, then maybe Just Carol and Mary-Judy will, too. I look at Harrison. He smiles his goofy smile.

  Mary-Judy opens another lock and unwinds a heavy chain from around the door of a low cement block building. “During the day, the lions are out in the exhibit,” she says, “unless it’s pouring down rain, then I take pity on ‘em and let them in. But at night, they stay in here.”

  It’s cool and dark in the night house, and it reeks of bad meat and urine and mildew. I can feel Pistachio smells it, too, because he’s scrambling in my pocket, trying to get out.

  Then I see the lions. They are in chain-link cages along the back wall. One male and three females. They are so big! Their backs are as tall as my chest, each paw is as large as my head, each of their heads is the size of half of me.

  Pistachio is twisting and squirming, trying his best to get out. I ease the Milk-Bone into my pocket. It doesn’t help. Pistachio is too excited to eat.

  The lions are pacing back and forth in their cages, making strange noises, almost like dog barks. This surprises me, but I’m glad about it. If Pistachio makes a noise, everyone will think it’s the lions.

  A female lion jumps up on a low wooden bench in her cage and then down again. Her paws strike the cement with a velvet thump.

  “Stay here,” Mary-Judy barks as she walks down the row.

  Don’t worry, I think.

  “Hi, Peggy,” Mary-Judy says to one of the lionesses, who is standing on her hind legs, her front paws resting on the chain link. She is taller than Mary-Judy, yet she doesn’t look scary. Her posture is friendly. She is rubbing her cheek on the chain link. She looks as if she wants to rub her face on Mary-Judy. She is saying hello to her, I realize, half expecting Peggy to open her mouth and give the top of Mary-Judy’s head a big lick. Now, all of the lions seem like giant house cats and I want to pet them really bad.

  Suddenly the male roars and lunges at the chain-link cage. My heart jumps in my chest. I hop back. He bellows deep and loud. The sound fills the small building, like music turned unexpectedly loud. He throws his weight at the fence, determined to bring it down.

  “All right, Junior, that’s enough,” Mary-Judy says. “For goodness’ sakes! Why the dominance display? I’m just trying to see if you ate your supper last night.” Mary-Judy walks in the empty chain-link cage next to the one where the male lion lives. She is even closer to him now. Is she nuts? Isn’t she afraid? Mary-Judy is leaning over, looking for something.

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nbsp; “God, I need glasses,” Mary-Judy says as the lion roars again and lunges at the fence, which bows with his weight. Mary-Judy is still leaning down. Why doesn’t she get out of there?

  But suddenly the male lion seems to lose interest. He turns and paces the distance of the cage. He sniffs the ground. He looks at us. He licks the fence—the tip of his big pink tongue curls through the chain-link diamond and he rolls his cheek against the mesh. He is easy now, content, sweet almost, as he swings his hind end toward us, lifts his tail high, and then I feel something wet. My hands fly to my face. Harrison pushes me. His elbow pokes my collarbone.

  “Honest to God, Junior.” Mary-Judy shakes her head.

  It seems like the lion just sprayed us with pee, but I can’t quite believe this. The lion leaps on the wooden platform in his cage. He looks proud of himself.

  “Yuck,” Harrison says. “Chickens never do that.”

  “He’s marking his territory,” Just Carol says.

  “We’re his territory?” I ask.

  “Apparently so,” Just Carol answers.

  Mary-Judy laughs in a friendly way. “Welcome to the zoo, ladies and gentlemen,” she says. She shakes her short-haired head again. The way she does this, it seems as if there’s something missing from her head. I wonder if she used to have long hair. “That’s okay, guys. It’s happened to all of us one time or another. It’s my fault for not warning you. Someone here wearing perfume?” Mary-Judy looks at me.

  I shrug. “Just a little,” I say, edging myself away from Just Carol. Pistachio is wiggling like crazy. The smell is making him nuts. I hope he doesn’t sneeze. I wonder if it will look suspicious if I walk out the door. I edge toward it.

  Mary-Judy nods her head and puckers up her mouth. “That’s why. Junior here likes perfume. He’s particularly fond of the real musky ones. We always tell our keepers not to wear scents, because you never can tell what an animal will make of them. Especially one of our cats. You wouldn’t believe some of the things perfume is made of—squashed beaver testicles, whale vomit… and who knows what those kinds of scents signify to a lion.”

  Mary-Judy is clearly enjoying herself now. She walks to the back wall, where there are pulleys marked with numbers. She grabs ahold of number 3 and hauls it down. The pulley makes a noise like rusty metal threading rusty metal and pulls open a door, which leads out of one of the lions’ cages into the big exhibit area outside. The lion darts out, even before the door is all the way open. The way she moves, I know this is what she has been waiting for. Mary-Judy lets the pulley go back up, and the door comes down again, closing off the bright square of sunlight. The pulley door gives me the creeps. It reminds me of a guillotine I saw in a book at school.

  Now Mary-Judy walks to pulley number 2 and does the same thing. When all the lions are out, she is all business again. “Carol, I think I have a couple of clean shirts hanging in my locker. Why don’t you have Ant and Harrison put those on. I’m going to check the birds. I’ll meet you at the African exhibit. We’ll clean here after break.” Mary-Judy picks up the bucket of rats and the bowl with the fruit and worms, then she waits for us to leave the night house first. When we are out in the bright sun, she wraps the heavy chain around the door and locks it with the kind of padlock Harrison uses on his bike.

  7

  KIGALI

  Harrison and me didn’t really get much pee on us, but we’re not about to turn down the chance to put on khaki shirts that say Ziffman Park Zoo on them. These are the kind only the real keepers get to wear. Of course, I have to cover mine with Pistachio’s jacket, which is the only part of me that actually got wet. I roll the sleeve up where it got a little pee on it and try not to get grossed out about it. I wonder what Your Highness Elizabeth would do if she got lion pee on her. This makes me laugh.

  When Harrison comes out of the rest room, he looks almost like a real keeper. Harrison is kind of small, so the sleeves are way too long. I help him roll them up, then we crowd in front of the scratched-up old mirror attached to the inside of Mary-Judy’s locker and admire ourselves.

  Just Carol sticks her head in the locker room. “All right, you’re both gorgeous. Now come on, you two. We’ve got a lot to do before lunch.” I jump when I hear her voice, afraid for a second Pistachio is out of my pocket. But he isn’t. He is curled in a little ball against my hip. I wish again I’d left him home.

  When we get to the giraffe exhibit, there are pigeons everywhere—on the ground, in the mangers, under the wheelbarrows, and clustered in the doorways of the giraffe night houses. Everything is really tall here, like it was stretched in a fun-house mirror. The only regular-size part is the feed shack, which is lined with shiny silver trash cans and smells like hay and gingerbread.

  The giraffes are already out in the exhibit area, and Mary-Judy is busy filling big black buckets with water and yelling at the pigeons. “Get out of here, you stupid birds.” She squirts them with her hose and they scatter, making funny gobbling, cooing noises. When she sees us, she calls out, “You know, I thought maybe you and Harrison might feed Kigali. The bucket is ready. You show them, Carol.”

  Just Carol laughs through her nose. She shakes her head. “You two sure won her over. Getting to feed Kigali is a huge treat. Come on,” she says, and leads us back around to the little feed shack. She opens the lid of a shiny new trash can and pulls out a blue bucket half filled with little green pellets. “You gotta hide everything here or the pigeons will eat it,” she explains.

  We follow her to a steep set of wooden steps that lead to a platform attached to the side of the exhibit area. Harrison gets his turn first. He climbs the steps with the awkward bucket banging his chin. When he gets to the top, three giraffes hurry toward the platform, their necks bobbing with each step. Up close their eyes look as if someone has applied thick black eyeliner to them, and their top lips hang over their bottom lips, like a bad case of buck lips. But it’s their long necks I notice most—how elegant and graceful they are and how they move in directions my neck won’t go. Squat-neck Elizabeth would be so jealous.

  “Don’t feed the others!” Carol warns Harrison. “Only Kigali. She’s the old one with the blind eye. See her?” Carol calls. “The rest of them don’t need extra food. Put the bucket behind you, Harrison, until they go away.”

  When Just Carol says this I wonder how we will know which giraffe is old. But then I see Kigali and I understand. Her bones poke out and the skin sags between them. Her coat is dull. One eye is a perfect white ball, as blank as the moon and all runny around it and stuck with dirt. She moves stiffly and her bones creak when she walks.

  “Sometimes she’s a little scared at first,” Carol calls up to Harrison.

  Kigali sniffs Harrison all over, almost like a dog. Her good eye seems to be inspecting him.

  “She’s checking him out,” Carol whispers to me.

  And then, all of a sudden, Kigali decides Harrison is okay and dips her head into the blue bucket. Now all I see are her horns, like big brown Q-tips sticking out. When she comes back up, she has a mouthful of tiny green pellets, which she chews in great circle motions.

  “I think she likes me,” Harrison calls down. He’s smiling so wide, you can see his gums.

  When it’s my turn, I climb the steep ladder partway up. There’s not really room for both of us on the platform up there.

  “Hey, sweet Kigali, are you the nicest giraffe in the whole world? I think you are, Kigali. I think you are,” Harrison whispers. Kigali’s tongue is black, as if she’s been eating licorice, but her spit is all slobbery and green.

  “Is that good, sweetheart?” he asks.

  I have heard Harrison sweet-talk his chicken this way when he doesn’t know I’m around. He has forgotten it’s my turn now. I put my hand in Pistachio’s pocket and pet him. He’s sleeping, I think. Apparently, nap time is nap time, zoo or no zoo.

  Kigali and Harrison seem to see me at the same time. Kigali pulls her head out of the bucket, faces her good eye at me, and backs away.
Harrison seems very sorry I am here. He doesn’t let go of the bucket.

  “Just let her come to you, Ant. Harrison, you can come down now. It’s Ant’s turn,” Just Carol says.

  Usually Harrison does anything Just Carol says. But not this time. Harrison doesn’t move.

  “He’s got to stay up here, too. Kigali trusts him. She won’t come over unless he’s here. And besides, I’m afraid of her,” I call down to Just Carol as I edge my way onto the platform with Harrison. It’s squishy with both of us up here.

  Harrison smiles at me. Just Carol snorts. All three of us know this isn’t true.

  I let Harrison hold the bucket and Kigali approaches again. Kigali gives me a once-over with her good eye, then ducks her head back in the bucket.

  “Ant, think my dad will let me have a giraffe?” Harrison asks.

  “If anyone would, it would be your dad,” I say. I take his free hand. I can feel the callus on the side of his middle finger where he holds his pencil tight. I squeeze his hand, then I let go. My face feels hot, and I hope Just Carol didn’t see. Harrison will understand I didn’t mean anything by this, but no one else will.

  8

  THE LIONS

  Harrison is still at the giraffe exhibit. Mary-Judy said we had to split in teams. We tried to get her to let us be a team together, but she said no way. She did say we could choose who would go where, though. Of course, I let Harrison stay with the giraffes and Just Carol and me head back to the lions’ night house.

  I stick my hand in my pocket. Tashi is quiet. He’s probably on overload from all the smells. I pet his fur with my finger and feel his hot breath on my hand. He is going to need to pee pretty soon, so I’m going to have to come up with a reason to sneak off by myself. I guess I’ll say I have to go to the bathroom. They won’t follow me in there, that’s for sure. He seems peaceful right now, though, so I’ll wait until he gets antsy again.